


Here Come The Sun King

by sittingonacloud



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Angst, Friends to Lovers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-13
Updated: 2017-02-13
Packaged: 2018-09-23 23:33:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9687341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sittingonacloud/pseuds/sittingonacloud
Summary: It's the end of the world and Paul has a secret he will take to the eternal flames. Brian takes the four boys to his cabin for the remaining few days.





	

They’re a mirage of shadow and harsh light, sweat-soaked and buzzing like power lines. Fingers plucking at strings, noise blaring out of crappy speakers. There is something quite other-worldly about their place on stage, having people flow through the doors like a moth to a flame to see them perform. Music, loud and messily played, thundering through the club and rattling each member to their core. Paul stands at his microphone and screams from the pit of his chest. It’s in this moment as the crowd lets out a cheer, that he feels John’s eyes on him, and everything is moving too fast for him to process except this fact. And it’s all he needs at that moment to shine on.

When the gig dies and the screams overcome them, they hop off backstage to their quarters, wiping the dripping hair from their eyes. John wraps an arm around Paul’s frame and says, “You were alright out there.” The electric spark that crackles along his chest tells him that this moment holds value. And as he turns to view John’s hazel eyes, he understands that truth completely. No after-joke, nothing of the sort. Just honesty from an elated John Lennon. It’s enough to send Paul higher than he’s ever experienced. It’s at that point in time he knows that John matters to him more than ever. 

It’s their last gig, Paul realises with a start, from now on the future stretches on and on without a stage. He turns to a downcast George, Ringo looking solemn as his body drops to a chair.

“That was marvellous, boys,” Brian greets them, brushing his hands over the suit jacket he’s wearing despite the heat. 

“No time for an encore, we’re off to Brian’s cellarful of boys, am I right there, Eppy?”

Brian huffs, small smile tugging at his lips. Paul wipes the sweat from his brow with his sleeve and watches Brian’s eyes. There’s this feeling Paul has, like Eppy only has passion for them and their performances, and now it’s over. It’s died along with every hope of them hitting the radio in America. Making records. Making millions. Everything Paul has obsessed over for years is now dying in his hands, and he has no choice but to watch. 

He goes home to shower, rid his body of the grit and grime, and to say goodbye to his family. They act as if they’ll see him again. He’s partly thankful for that.

 

Brian has a cabin a few hours away. It’s tucked in the mountains amongst the greenery and the solid blue sky. The sun, prepared to engulf them all, is sinking int o the trees by the time the van gets there. The boys fall out and wordlessly head for the door. It’s homey inside, records in frames hanging on the walls. Possibly priceless art decorates the small place. It’s all very well, but Paul feels utterly helpless and itchy with regret. He shouldn’t be here. His eyes trace John’s almond shaped oculars and he feels his stomach dip. 

The first night is one of the hardest. Paul and John share a room in the small downstairs area where paintings are stacked and dusty boxes sit. He wonders if he’d find old love letters Eppy had written in them, and if they’d bear any resemblance to his own sinful thoughts. Poetry about longing and hopeless fantasies. All written in neat handwriting, inked to the paper forevermore. 

John shuffles a pile of cards in his hands, a nervous habit, Paul has picked up. He doesn’t know what to say, because everything is so bleak. They’ll never see those fans again. The redhead that brings the posters. The blonde that cheers the loudest when Ringo plays ‘Boys’. The boys that line the edges of the building and clap along. It’s all gone. They’re just them now. Hardly a band. They’ll never play again. 

An idea strikes him and before he can filter himself, he says, “Reckon we could write a song?”

“What? Now? What for?”

“I feel like it,” Paul shrugs and shuffles forward from his mattress on the floor to kneel behind John’s. 

“Too late, Paulie, no one’s gonna hear it.”

“We would.”

“So what?” 

“Fine,” Paul’s skin flushes rosy pink from nerves. He’ll never write with John again. The thing he loves most, gone. He’s actually beginning to realise that everything will leave him. Writing with John? Gone. Playing on stage? Gone. Joking around with the boys? Gone. The boys themselves? God, he doesn’t even want to think…… 

“You’ve been quiet, is all,” Paul comments, retreating back to his makeshift bed and flops over onto his back, hands behind his head. 

“Not much to say, is there,” John mutters. And this isn’t right. This isn’t how it was supposed to go. 

They fall asleep eventually. Though Paul hears John shuffling in his sleep, and part of him wants to crawl over there, stroke his hair and calm him somehow. Lie and tell him they’ll be fine. 

 

Brian makes them all breakfast, it’s lavish and over the top, like he’s compensating for the fact they’re all going to die. Paul figures it’s a bit morbid to think about it at the breakfast table, but the look on John’s face can only read as downcast and glum. He was like this after Stuart’s death. Numb, angry, lost. Lost. Paul can relate. 

The morning sun gives off a soft hue of light gold and the leaves of the trees reflect and glow in it. It’s glorious and something that should be marvelled at, but Paul is empty and can’t muster up even a bit of admiration. He’s sitting on the rooftop of the cabin, hugging his knees. His eyes are watery as he thinks of his family. His friends. How it’s all going to end. 

“Paul,” John greets as he takes his place next to Paul, bumping arms. It sends a shockwave of heat flushing through his body and he hates it. 

“Johnny boy,” Paul nods and looks upwards at a bird flying past, “Imagine bein’ that free.”

Every word is sharp. He sees John flinch a little bit. 

“Ye mean he doesn’t know.”

“He might know.” 

“Animals don’t know nothin’,” John brushes him off, crossing his arms over his chest. 

It’s probably unfair to think about it. But seeing John now, the light from his eyes gone, the bags under his darkened eyes. It all brings him back to the fact that it will all end in a couple of days. 

“Reckon it’ll hurt?” John asks quietly. Paul shudders.

“Don’t.” 

“Fine,” John sighs and leans back, watching the same bird circle around the trees in the distance. 

The silence is heavy between them. And even in this warm air he can feel the chill coming from John. 

“Ol’ Sutcliffe thought we were going to America. Poor Eppy did too.”

“We could’ve,” Paul assures him gently. 

“Yeah. Could ‘ave,” John mumbles low under his breath.

That’s the thing. They were going to be huge. Brian promised and believed in it with every fiber in his being. He talked of New York, tv appearances and money. God, the money. Thousands of fans camped outside of venues. That Liverpool was just a mere taste of the fame they would reap. They’d joke about and talk for hours about America. How spectacular it would be. 

He rubs his hands over his face and lets himself bask in the darkness behind his eyelids for a while before peering out to look at John, “Best not to think about it.”

John nods. The cut of his jaw, the softness in his cheek, the determined look always carried in his eyes. He loves these details. He wants to lean against John’s shoulder and inhale his scent and everything that is him. 

The pale grey of the rooftop and the soft hues of the sky and the trees. It’s all so beautiful. He’d write a lazy song beneath the sky right here, right now. But there’s a piece of him missing. 

They sit there quietly, until lunch is served. Paul isn’t hungry, neither is John but he leaves anyway, leaving the younger Beatle to watch the sky. 

Inside the cabin there are wooden beams that line the ceiling, with lights dangling down. They’re all turned on and burning bright, sending soft shades of light over the living room. George is fumbling around with his guitar, humming a tune. Ringo is tapping the coffee table with his foot and adjusting the rings on his fingers. Brian is lounged on the couch watching television next to Ringo. 

“Happy family, eh?” John jokes lightly as he plonks down on the armchair and puts his feet up on the table. 

“We’re going to go for a walk. There’s a brilliant view at the mountain’s peak, we can catch sunset if we go now.”

Paul is about to refuse the offer when John stands up, “Let’s go then.”

The boys are huffing and almost as sweaty as they get after a gig. They’re walking uphill on a beaten down pathway that winds up the mountainside. The trees overgrown roots trip them up a few times, even Brian who leads the boys. Almost like he’s leading them into the sun… 

The soft green of the leaves makes for a very pretty surrounding, but Paul has only one thing in mind. 

John is playing his harmonica, a little tune he and Paul wrote together. It was about forbidden love and how you can’t walk away from it. Strange how life imitates art and vice versa.

They make it to the mountain’s peak and it’s spectacular. Brian was right, as usual. They’re viewing the stretch of land. Trees almost endlessly spread out before them. 

Ringo yells out, “Hello!” and it echoes. At least, they think it does. 

They all yell, except Brian who just chuckles off to the side. Paul screams until his lungs are sore from effort. He reigns this land, he feels it. Liverpool and everything around it was theirs. He spreads out his arms and allows the sky to take him, wash over him. The golden-orange light resting on his skin. And the five of them are magnetic, all buzzing and bumping into each other as they yell out into the distance.The lush greenery behind them glows in the light. And Paul wonders if the trees know that this is the end. The final chapter.

Will their story live on? He certainly thinks so, standing here, feeling invincible. He grabs John by the arm and pulls him into a half hug that lasts seconds too long. But John doesn’t seem to mind, and Paul is too dizzy with affection to care about how he comes across. He wants to hold onto John for the rest of his life. However short that may be. 

 

“Aye, Paul?” John whispers into the darkness early in the morning. Paul is already awake, counting his breaths and measuring time. 

“Yeah?”

“Want to write?” John’s voice is small and insecure, and exactly what Paul needed to hear. He climbs out from under his worn navy blue blanket and shuffles over to John, who’s sitting upright with crossed legs. 

“I was thinking,” John begins,  _ “There are places I'll remember, all my life, though some have changed. Some forever, not for better, some have gone and some remain. All these places have their moments, with lovers and friends I still can recall, some are dead and some are living. In my life, I've loved them all.” _

“That’s… that’s good. Really good,” Paul clears his throat, “Got any more?” 

“Yeah… I just… I was just thinking. About life, I suppose. How funny it is, how much I care.”

“Yeah,” Paul wants to stroke his arm and curl into his lap. He wants to hold John and sing him back these lyrics into his hair. 

“Brian liked it too,” John comments. 

“Oh… you showed him first?” he feels somewhat betrayed. 

John nods and slowly lifts himself out of the mattress and closer to Paul on the floor. 

“You know, he’s a really great guy, Brian.”

“Sure is,” Paul wrings his hands a little nervously.

“Bloody hell, I’m going soft for a queer,” John chuckles, shaking his head.

“So what?” Paul defends himself.

“Seein’ him in Spain changed me, I s’pose,” John scratches the back of his head, “Who gives a toss what others think? Brian’s brave enough, so am I.”

Paul’s heart thunders in his chest, spreading warmth, thick and honey-like through his veins. 

“You gave a toss then though. Beat that poor sod half t’ death when he called ye a fairy,” Paul recollects miserably.

“I’m older and uglier now,” John reassures and gently extends a hand towards Paul, who takes it. Palms pressed together, fingers wrapped around skin. 

John doesn’t speak now, just stares, watches Paul, who is speechless. 

They fall asleep like that, just like that. Paul awakes to find the warmth gone, along with John. Feet padding on the wooden floor, Paul makes his way to the kitchen where the boys are gathered around the dining table. A vase with a single dying flower stands in the center.

The TV is playing in the background. 

_ “Earth will cease to exist in a matter of days, scientists are telling us…. Crime rates have skyrocketed….”  _

Paul swallows hard and drums his fingers along the back of a chair, watching John spoon cereal into his opened mouth. Something about him in this light is quite stunning. Hair ruffled, eyelids drooped over, lazy jawed. 

“Paul?” George’s voices wafts through.

“Yes?” Paul whips his head around to face him. 

“Reckon we’d hike up again.”

Paul looks over him. Baby George. Bang. Gone. In a matter of days. 

“Sure.”   
  


They play cards upon a large rock on the mountain’s peak and kick around a battered old football Ringo had when he was a child. John is dribbling the ball between his feet clumsily while giggling, Ringo plummeting into him with a tackle. George and Brian laugh and Paul can only smile. 

“Proper champions, we are,” Ringo announces joyfully. Now that he thinks about it, Ringo has been utterly cheerful this entire trip. Wonder if it’s all breaking beneath the surface. 

“Reckon we’d have made it as athletes, Eppy?” George asks, smiling wide.  

“You four have a certain grace… Not made for the field, perhaps,” Brian’s cheeks are rosy, eyes sparkling with delight at being included. 

“Great opportunity for you to spy more boys since all the fans are male,” John jokes lightly, setting himself down across from Paul. Brian shoots him a look, but cracks into a bright smile despite it all. 

They talk, joke about, just as they would backstage before a gig. Except something rings different in the plain joy Brian has in his eyes. Maybe because he’s spending his last days with the people he loves most. And isn’t that incredible to think about? Imagine him being anyone’s favourite person, let alone a posh manager who still insists on wearing expensive shirts for hiking. 

He gets John alone as they are making their way back down the track.

“John?”

“Yeah?”

“Reckon Stu would’ve chosen us or Astrid?”

John pauses briefly, “He’d ‘ave gone straight for her.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, the bastard,” they both laugh. John shoves his fists in his jacket pockets and sighs loudly.

“Brian’d choose us any time.”

“That poofter,” John shakes his head.

“Will you ever stop teasin’ him?” Paul laughs into his hand.

“I’ll torture that queer Jew til the end of time.”

“Lovely,” Paul takes a deep breath of clean air and it fills his head with pure thoughts of love for the man beside him. 

“If I were in love, I’d choose them too,” John comments quietly.

“Yeah,” Paul looks to the light leaking through the trees, “Me too.”   
  


They decide to throw a party. Brian goes into town with Ringo to buy balloons and streamers that they all hang around the cabin. They buy sparklers and light them at night, and watch the light crackle and burn brightly in front of them as they wave them wildly. They drink as much as they can and fall asleep on the rug in a heap. Brian’s head on John’s stomach, Ringo’s arm draped over George’s back. Paul sits beside them and sobs into his sleeve for a good hour. He doesn’t sleep a wink that night. 

“We should play one last gig,” Ringo announces during a glum game of cards in front of the TV playing a Marlon Brando film. 

So they do. They lug up the guitars up the mountainside and Ringo sits at the rock and knocks his rings against the hard surface. They start with Long Tall Sally and Paul screams from the bottom of his chest into the sky. Brian watches them from his place off to the side with arms crossed and a brilliant grin. 

They keep playing and playing. Their fingers are burning and their voices are raw, but they keep going because this is their last gig. Something happens on their stage of ankle deep grass and dirt. They bounce about and sing along to the songs that shaped them as musicians. As people. 

It’s night by the time they finish, George singing ‘Til There Was You’. Paul watches John the whole time. He observes the stubble dusted over John’s cheek, the length of his hair and the shape of his eyes. He wants all of John, forevermore.    
  


He hears John whimpering in his sleep, except it’s followed by harsh breaths and moans that sound like they’ve only just escaped his mouth by a thin chance. The sound of material shifting and more breaths drives Paul’s stomach to curl. He listens, hand slowly creeping up his thigh and over his crotch. He presses down and bites down on his lip. He imagines John’s hands on him. Rough palming. Gentle kisses. It’s all he can envision before he hears John come. He follows shortly after. They don’t speak, but something in the way John snickers afterwards has Paul nervous. 

They don’t turn on the TV now. It’s just weary journalists with tired eyes reporting more bad news. It’s another game of monopoly on the dining table for entertainment, Brian is winning and John is joking about it incessantly. Paul’s cracking up like he always does when John is rambling on like this, with a glint in his eyes. Ringo nudges Paul’s arm and mumbles something about how John will still be teasing Brian in the afterlife, and it gets Paul wondering.  

Another hike, but it’s just John and Paul this time. They sit on the rocks and throw pebbles as far as they can, hoping to hit the roof of the cabin. 

“I miss Paris,” John says, tossing another pebble into the air. Paul turns, startled and nods frantically. 

“Me too,” he says quietly, “Me too.” 

It’s the only thing they say the entire time they’re up there.    
  


 

“Paul? Ye awake?” John rolls over on his mattress, hand outstretched onto the floor. 

“Yeah, barely,” Paul replies in a half-yawn. 

“I was thinking… I should’ve told Sutcliffe… all those things in me head. How I… how I felt. Eh?”

“Yeah,” Paul agrees, though he’s not sure what John is on about. He says weird things all the time, but this doesn’t sound like a joke. 

“So I’m telling you,” John takes a shuddery breath, “Ok?”

“Ok.”

“I never had a mate...never… not like you, son,” his voice softens.

“Thanks, John,” he sucks on his bottom lip and tries to make out John’s shape in the dark. 

“And I’m going to miss you. However long we’re apart for.”

“We won’t be,” Paul promises, though he’s not sure he can really ensure that. 

“Come ‘ere,” John says, but crawls over to Paul’s mattress anyway. He curls into Paul’s chest and breaths puffs of warm air onto his throat. 

Paul wraps his arms around John’s frame, pulls him closer. Tears are welling up, threatening to spill over within seconds. He’s warm and safe, John throws a leg over Paul’s hip and pulls himself closer. 

“Reckon he knew anyhow,” Paul says softly, “Stu. He must’ve known.”

“Think so?”

“Sure,” Paul runs his fingertips along the expanse of John’s back over the dark fabric of his shirt. 

A moment of brief calm before the storm. 

John stretches his neck upwards, pressing his lips to Paul’s ever so gently. Slow, like he’s trying to make each movement just right. Warm air around them, circling them, as they kiss opened-mouthed and increasingly more desperate as time moves on. Paul’s hand flies to cradle John’s jaw and use his thumb to stroke his cheekbone. John moans into his mouth and presses their foreheads together. He deepens to kiss like it’s all he has. 

Paul’s heart is beating in his throat. John’s hands are running over his pale skin, absorbing him. He drowns in John’s arms, allowing himself to immerse himself in this and only this. The kiss is becoming messy, but he doesn’t mind. He doesn’t mind how it feels to be this close to someone. Let alone John. 

“Fuck,” John whimpers, pressing his hips into Paul’s and grinding, up and down until Paul is seeing stars. 

“Let me,” Paul’s lips barely move as the sounds come out. His hand darts down to the hem of John’s shorts and immediately he slides in, gripping John’s groin in his warm hand. His cheeks flush with want as he begins to pump. John groans into his neck and reaches down to wrap his fingers around Paul’s hard cock. He’s already tenting in his shorts and the relief that comes with John’s hand on him is like being able to breathe after being held underwater for a long, long time. This whole experience is like learning to breathe again. Familiar, necessary, empowering. 

The tension builds low in his stomach as John pumps slowly, thumbing over his head. The world is whirling around his head and he grips John in his free hand in a way that will leave bruises in the morning. The room seems brighter now, somehow. Hips stirring slowly, eyes closed, they keep going until they both come into each other’s hands, breathing into each other’s mouths. 

They stay there, like that and just like that, for another hour. Silent. 

Padding feet against the wooden floor, creaking underneath the weight of Brian’s figure as he peeks through the door. 

“Boys? It’s happening.”

John looks up at Paul with half-lidded eyes that seem glassed over. Cheeks rosy and lips raw. He’s stunning and Paul feels his chest swell with love for this boy.

The five of them end up on the rooftop of the cabin. George, Ringo, Brian, John and Paul. The sun is spread across the sky like crimson silk, an orange bulb of light growing larger and larger by the second. Ringo has an arm around George, both of them singing under their breaths. Brian links his arm through John’s quietly, watching the sky, wind whipping his hair out of it’s natural shape. John is watching the sky with a smile on his lips, breaking into an all out grin as the heat begins to rise. The wind is intense, whirling around them and threatening to knock them off their spots. 

Paul keeps his eyes on John. He doesn’t count his breaths, he doesn’t flicker his eyes to the sky. All he needs in this moment is John.   
And so when the light becomes too much for his eyes, and when the wind becomes too loud in his ears, and when all of his senses are so overloaded he can’t experience anything, he knows he’ll see John soon. In all this light, he knows that for sure. 


End file.
